Tim Casey, a juror, rose suddenly from his seat and hastened to the door of the courtroom. He was prevented, however, from leaving the room, and was sternly questioned by the judge.

"Yes, your honor, I'll explain meself," said the juror. "When Mr. Finn finished his talking me mind was clear all through, but whin Mr. Evans begins his talkin' I becomes all confused an' says I to myself, Taith, I'd better lave at once, an' shtay away until he is done,' because, your honor, to tell the truth, I didn't like the way the argument was going."


Great Tools To Earn Hot Cash

A sturdy Scot, 6 feet 5 inches in height, is a gamekeeper near
Strafford. One hot day last summer he was accompanying a bumptious
sportsman, of very small stature, when he was greatly troubled by gnats.
The other said to him:

"My good man, why is it that the gnats do not trouble me?"

"I daresay," replied the gamekeeper, with a comprehensive glance at the
other's small proportions, "it will be because they havna' seen ye yet!"

Two young Irishmen in a Canadian regiment were going into the trenches
for the first time, and their captain promised them five shillings each
for every German they killed.

Pat lay down to rest, while Mick performed the duty of watching. Pat
had not lain long when he was awakened by Mick shouting:

"They're comin'! They're comin'!"

"Who's comin'?" shouts Pat.

"The Germans," replies Mick.

"How many are there?"

"About fifty thousand."

"Begorra," shouts Pat, jumping up and grabbing his rifle, "our fortune's
made!"

Mr. Budger and his wife were continually at variance regarding their individual capabilities of making and keeping a good fire. He contended that she did not know how to make a fire, nor how to keep one after it was made. She, on the other hand, maintained that he never meddled with the fire that he didn't put it out--in short, that he was a perfect fire damper; and, as he was always anxious to stir up things in the varous fireplaces, she made a practice of hiding the poker just before it was time for him to come into the house. One night there was an alarm of fire in the village and Budger flew for his hat and coat.

"Where are you going, my dear?" asked his wife.

"Why, there's a fire, and I'm going to help put it out."

"Well, my love," responded Mrs. Budger, "I think the best thing you can do is to take the poker along with you."


Great Tools To Earn Hot Cash

There is a story of Bransby Williams, famous impersonator of Dickens's characters, which will come home to many of us in these days of food shortage.

He had a hard time before he "arrived," and hunger was a familiar companion. One night he had to play in a sketch in which he was supposed to consume a steak pudding.

"Imagine my surprise," he says, "when a real, good, smoking hot steak and kidney pudding arrived on the scene. 'My eye!' I exclaimed to myself. I had to cut it and serve it, and in the ordinary course of events we should have got through this stage meal in about five or six minutes.

"But not to-night! I made up my mind that that pudding should not be wasted, but eaten, and I commenced in earnest. I made the best meal I had had for days, and improvised conversation till it was all polished off!"


Great Tools To Earn Hot Cash

Soldiers have to do their own mending when it is done at all, and it appears--although few persons would have guessed it--that the thoughtful War Office supplies them with outfits for that purpose. Otherwise, this joke would be impossible.

Everything was ready for kit inspection; the recruits stood lined up ready for the officer, and the officer had his bad temper all complete. He marched up and down the line, grimly eyeing each man's bundle of needles and soft soap, and then he singled out Private MacTootle as the man who was to receive his attentions.

"Toothbrush?" he roared.

"Yes, sir."

"Razor?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hold-all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm! You're all right, apparently," growled the officer. Then he barked:

"Housewife?"

"Oh, very well, thank you," said the recruit amiably. "How's yours?"


Great Tools To Earn Hot Cash

The fine art of concealment is thus formulated by Carolyn Wells, writing
in _Life_:

Once upon a time there lived an elderly millionaire who had four
nephews. Desiring to make one of these his heir, he tested their
cleverness.

He gave to each a one-hundred-dollar bill, with the request that they
hide the bills for a year in the city of New York.

Any of them who should succeed in finding the hidden bill at the end of
the year should share in the inheritance.

The year being over, the four nephews brought their reports.

The first, deeply chagrined, told how he had put his bill in the
strongest and surest safety deposit vaults, but, alas, clever thieves
had broken in and stolen it.

The second had put his bill in charge of a tried and true friend. But
the friend had proved untrustworthy and had spent the money.

The third had hidden his bill in a crevice in the floor of his room, but
a mouse had nibbled it to bits to build her nest.

The fourth nephew calmly produced his hundred-dollar bill, as crisp and
fresh as when it had been given him.

"And where did you hide it?" asked his uncle.

"Too easy! I stuck it in a hotel Bible."

Burton Holmes, the lecturer, had an interesting experience while in
London. He told some Washington friends a day or two ago that when he
visited the theatre where he was to deliver his travelogue he decided
that the entrance to the theatre was rather dingy and that there should
be more display of his attraction.

Accordingly, he suggested to the manager of the house that the front be
brightened up at night by electrical signs, one row of lights spelling
his name "Burton" and another row of lights spelling the name "Holmes."

The manager told him it was too much of an innovation for him to
authorize and referred him to the owner of the theatre. Mr. Holmes
traveled several hours into the country to consult with the owner, who
referred him to his agent in the city. The agent in turn sent Mr. Holmes
to the janitor of the theatre.

"I talked with the janitor and explained my plan to him for about an
hour," Mr. Holmes said. "Finally, after we had gone into every detail of
the cost and everything else, the janitor told me that the theatre was a
very exclusive and high-class theatre, and that he would not put up the
sign. I asked him why?"

"Because it would attract too much attention to the theatre," the
janitor replied.

Much sobered by the importance of the news he had to communicate,
youthful Thomas strode into the house and said breathlessly:

"Mother, they have a new baby next door, and the lady over there is
awful sick. Mother, you ought to go right in and see her."

"Yes, dear," said his mother. "I will go over in a day or two just as
soon as she gets better."

"But, mother," persisted Thomas. "I think you ought to go in right away;
she is real sick, and maybe you can do something to help."

"Yes, dear," said the mother patiently, "but wait a day or so until she
is just a little better."

Thomas seemed much dissatisfied at his mother's apparent lack of
neighborly interest, and then something seemed to dawn upon him, for he
blurted out:

"Mother, you needn't be afraid--it ain't catching."

When James B. Reynolds was Assistant Secretary of the Treasury, Senator
Root sent for Mr. Reynolds one day to discuss with him some matters
concerning a trade conference in Paris which Mr. Reynolds had been
selected to attend.

"I suppose," said Mr. Root, "you speak French?"

"Well, yes," responded Mr. Reynolds. "I know a little French. I have no
trouble to make the waiters and the cab drivers understand me."

"I see," said Mr. Root. "But, Mr. Reynolds, suppose there should be no
waiters and cab drivers at the conference?"

No man is ever willing to admit that he has any prejudices. But
sometimes the facts confront him sternly, as in the case of the two
gentlemen in the following dialogue:

BRIGGS: I wonder why it is that when men like Bryan and Billy Sunday
accept good money we have a tendency secretly to despise them.

GRIGGS: Well, I presume because they are posing to be disinterested.
When they take away such big returns we set them down as hypocrites.

BRIGGS: But they have a right to make a living.

GRIGGS: You might say that of any one else--any get-rich-quick chap,
for example, provided he can get away with it.

BRIGGS: But the get-rich-quick man is cheating his customers.

GRIGGS: Well, a good many people feel that both Bryan and Sunday are
cheating their customers. I don't say they are, mind you. I am only
giving that side of the argument, and, according to it, they are
deluding their customers with false hopes. Bryan says that a combination
of free silver, grape juice, and peace will cure all ills, and he gets
five hundred dollars a lecture for saying it. Billy Sunday gets
thousands of dollars for dragging hell out into the limelight. They are
both popular forms of amusement. They divert the mind. Why shouldn't
they be paid? There are far worse moving-picture shows than Bryan or
Sunday.

BRIGGS: You believe that, now, don't you? Be honest and say it's your
genuine opinion, and not put it off on someone else.

GRIGGS _(Lowering his voice_): Well, I'll tell you, old chap. I believe
it about Bryan, but not about Sunday. Sunday's all right. He hates
money! How do you feel about it?

BRIGGS: You're wrong. I believe it about Sunday, but not about Bryan.
Bill Bryan is all right. He's a patriot. I wouldn't trust Sunday, but
W.J. Bryan's whole thought is for others. (_Looking at his watch_.)
Heavens! I didn't realize it was so late. I must rush off.

GRIGGS: Is it that late? I must hurry away also. Where are you going?

BRIGGS: I'm going to hear Sunday. Where are you going?

GRIGGS: I'm going to hear Bryan.

William Williams hated nicknames. He used to say that most fine given
names were ruined by abbreviations, which was a sin and a shame. "I
myself," he said, "am one of six brothers. We were all given good,
old-fashioned Christian names, but all those names were shortened into
meaningless or feeble monosyllables by our friends. I shall name my
children so that it will be impracticable to curtail their names."

The Williams family, in the course of time, was blessed with five
children, all boys. The eldest was named after the father--William. Of
course, that would be shortened to "Will" or enfeebled to "Willie"--but
wait! A second son came and was christened Willard. "Aha!" chuckled Mr.
Williams, "Now everybody will have to speak the full names of each of
these boys in order to distinguish them."

In pursuance of this scheme the next three sons were named Wilbert,
Wilfred, and Wilmont.

They are all big boys now. And they are respectively known to their
intimates as Bill, Skinny, Butch, Chuck, and Kid.

A couple of Philadelphia youths, who had not met in a long while, met
and fell to discussing their affairs in general.

"I understand," said one, "that you broke your engagement with Clarice
Collines."

"No, I didn't break it."

"Oh, she broke it?"

"No, she didn't break it."

"But it is broken?"

"Yes. She told me what her raiment cost, and I told her what my income
was. Then our engagement sagged in the middle and gently dissolved."

Miss Amy Lowell, sister of President Lowell of Harvard, is not only a
distinguished poetess, being by many considered the head of the Vers
Libre school in this country, but she is also the guardian of a most
handsome and stately presence.

Oliver Herford, himself a poet and wit, doubtless inspired by envy,
recently remarked of her that

"One half of Amy Lowell doesn't know how the other half lives."

The sniper is ever prevalent on the western front. A certain Colonel,
who was by the way quite unpopular with his regiment, was one afternoon
sitting in a shack, when a report was heard and a bullet whizzed over
his head.

Calling a private, he said testily:

"Go out and get that sniper."

The man was gone for some time, but he eventually returned with Fritz.
He had not got him in, however, before he began to belabor him fiercely.

"What are you beating up that Hun for?" asked a comrade.

"He missed the Colonel," whispered the other.

The average foreigner can rarely comprehend the geographical area of the
United States, as was quite fully illustrated by the Englishman and his
valet who had been traveling due west from Boston for five days. At the
end of the fifth day master and servant were seated in the smoking-car,
and it was observed that the man was gazing steadily and thoughtfully
out of the window. Finally his companion became curious. "William," said
he, "of what are you thinking?"

"I was just thinking, sir, about the discovery of Hamerica," replied the
valet. "Columbus didn't do such a wonderful thing, after all, when he
found this country, did he, now, sir? Hafter hall's said an' done, 'ow
could 'e 'elp it?"

A Scottish doctor who was attending a laird had instructed the butler of
the house in the art of taking and recording his master's temperature
with a thermometer. On paying his usual morning call he was met by the
butler, to whom he said: "Well, John, I hope the laird's temperature is
not any higher to-day?"

The man looked puzzled for a minute, and then replied: "Weel, I was just
wonderin' that mysel'. Ye see, he deed at twal' o'clock."

The Englishman's undying love for certain civilized things is thus
portrayed by R. Richard Schayer in _Life_.

In a gorse bush a hundred yards beyond his trench lay Lieutenant
Fitzhugh Throckmorton of the King's Own Rifles, asleep at his post. For
hours he had lain there, searching the position of the enemy through his
binoculars. Overcome by fatigue, he had nodded, drowsed, and finally
slumbered.

The sun hung low in the western mists when Throckmorton awoke. He
glanced at his wristwatch and sprang to his feet with an oath.
Regardless of peril, he turned and sprinted toward his trench. His was
not a nature to count the risk when duty, however delayed, called. Every
German sniper within range sent shot upon shot after the flying figure.
The enemy's trenches took up the hunt and fairly blazed with rifle and
machine gun fire. The bullets hummed in Throckmorton's ears like a swarm
of savage hornets. They snarled and bit at the turf about his feet like
a pack of wolves.

With a last desperate burst of speed, his clothing tattered with bullet
holes, the Lieutenant gained his trench and leaped down to its cover.
His face, wearing an expression of mingled hope and despair, he rushed
to the bomb-proof dug-out where sat his Colonel and brother officers.
They looked up at him with cold eyes. One glance and Throckmorton's
heart failed him. He was too late.

They had finished tea.

William M. Chase used to tell this story:

"I was standing on a railway platform in Japan, waiting for a train, and
whiling away my time by watching a particularly beautiful sunset.

"Suddenly a freight train pulled in and, stopping in front of me, cut
off my view. Being a good American, and trained in a very proper respect
for 'business,' I merely turned philosophically away and proceeded to
look at something else. In a moment, however, the station master
appeared at my side and inquired with the politest of bows if I had
been enjoying the sunset.

"I admitted that I had, and smilingly accepted his apology for the
intrusion of the train. 'Of course I recognized that trains were the
first consideration in stations,' I said.

"Imagine my surprise, then, when the little Japanese shook his head
firmly. 'But no,' he said, bowing even more deeply than before, 'the
train must not be allowed to obstruct the honorable artistic traveler's
honorable æsthetic enjoyment'--or words to that effect. 'I will cause it
to withdraw,'

"And he actually did precisely that!"

When Julia Ward Howe died, memorial services in her honor were held at
San Francisco, and the local literary colony attended practically en
masse to pay by their presence a tribute to the writer.

A municipal officer was asked to preside. Dressed in his long frock coat
and his broad white tie, he advanced to the edge of the platform to
launch the exercises and introduce the principal eulogist. He bowed low
and spoke as follows:

"Your attendance here, ladies and gents, in such great numbers shows San
Francisco's appreciation of good literature. This meeting is a great
testimonial to the immortal author of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'--the late
Julia Ward Howard!"

What may be the Kaiser's ultimate fate is thus amusingly told by _Life_
of the scene in Hell on a certain day:

"What's all the racket about?" said Satan, stepping out of the Brimstone
Bath, where he was giving two or three U-boat commanders an extra
flaying.

"Poor old Hohenzollern has got it in the neck at last," said
Machiavelli, who was hosing off the premises with vitriol in
preparation for a new squad of shirtwaist-factory owners.

Satan listened attentively. Indeed, it was true. The Hohenzollerns had
been booted off the throne of Germany.

"Well, that's tough," said Satan. "I never could see why they chivied
those poor Hohenzollerns so. They were perfect devils. I have often said
so. Poor old Bill! Why, he was one of the best pupils I ever had. I
heard someone say that he had made Belgium a hell upon earth. Wasn't
that a compliment?"

"Not only that," said Machiavelli; "he had the novel idea of making the
sea a hell, too. He and Tirpitz did magnificent work. Not even a party
of schoolgirls could go on the water without getting torpedoed. They
drowned I don't know how many innocent women and children in a manner
worthy of the highest education."

"That deportation of non-combatants from Lille was excellent, too,"
mused Satan.

"Don't forget the shooting of Miss Cavell," said Machiavelli. "And there
was the bombing of unfortified towns, and the poison gas. Why, in my
palmiest days I never thought of anything so choice as that poison gas.
I told Borgia about it, and she went green with envy."

"You're right, Mac," said Satan, treading in his excitement on a
captain of Uhlans who was hanging out to cool; "that Kaiser is a regular
prince of darkness. When he gets down here (and I guess he will pretty
soon) we'll omit the setting-up exercises and put him right into
advanced tactics. Come to think of it, there were those prison camps,
too, where he allowed captured soldiers to rot with filth and disease
without any physicians. Excellent!"

"There's only one drawback," said Machiavelli regretfully. "The man has
raised so much hell on earth that I doubt if there's much we can teach
him down here. Really, he's not an amateur at all, but a professional. I
don't know whether it wouldn't be more punishment to send him to heaven
instead. As a matter of fact, down here he'll feel perfectly at home."

"I guess we can still think up one or two little novelties for him,"
said Satan, as he opened a trap-door and let a dozen of Billy Sunday's
converts drop into the blazing sulphur.

Every seat was occupied, when a group of women got in. The conductor
noticed a man who he thought was asleep.

"Wake up!" shouted the conductor.

"I wasn't asleep," said the passenger.

"Not asleep! Then what did you have your eyes closed for?"

"It was because of the crowded condition of the car," explained the
passenger. "I hate to see the women standing."

How modern are the old fellows. Here is a story related by Cicero in one
of his letters which will recall the embarrassments we have ourselves
felt in the presence of the unexpected.

Cicero gives an account to his friend of a visit he had just received
from the Emperor Julius Cæsar. He had invited Julius to pass a few days
with him, but he came quite unexpectedly with a thousand men! Cicero,
seeing them from afar, debated with another friend what he should do
with them but at length managed to encamp them. To feed them was a less
easy matter. The emperor took everything quite easily, however, and was
very pleasant, "but," adds Cicero, "he is not the man to whom I should
say a second time, 'if you are passing this way, give me a call.'"

A British soldier was walking down the Strand one day. He had one leg
off and an arm off and both ears missing and his head was covered with
bandages, and he was making his way on low gear as best he could, when
he was accosted by an intensely sympathetic lady who said:

"Oh, dear, dear! I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you. This is
really terrible. Can't I do something? Do tell me, did you receive all
these wounds in real action?"

A weary expression came over that part of the soldier's face that was
visible as he replied:

"No, madam; I was cleaning out the canary bird cage, and the d----d bird
bit me!"

He was a mine-sweeper, and, home on leave, was feeling a bit groggy. He
called to see a doctor, who examined him thoroughly.

"You're troubled with your throat, you say?" said the doctor.

"Aye, aye, sir," said the sailor.

"Have you ever tried gargling it with salt and water?" asked the doctor.

The mine-sweeper groaned.
"I should say so!" he said. "I've been torpedoed seven times!"

An old South Carolina darky was sent to the hospital of St. Xavier in Charleston. One of the gentle, black-robed sisters put a thermometer in his mouth to take his temperature. Presently, when the doctor made his rounds, he said:

"Well, Nathan, how do you feel?"

"I feel right tol'ble, boss."

"Have you had any nourishment?"

"Yassir."

"What did you have?"

"A lady done gimme a piece of glass ter suck, boss."

Two brothers were being entertained by a rich friend. As ill luck would
have it, the talk drifted away from ordinary topics.

"Do you like Omar Khayyam?" thoughtlessly asked the host, trying to make
conversation. The elder brother plunged heroically into the breach.

"Pretty well," he said, "but I prefer Chianti."

Nothing more was said on this subject until the brothers were on their
way home.

"Bill," said the younger brother, breaking a painful silence, "why can't
you leave things that you don't understand to me? Omar Khayyam ain't a
wine, you chump; it's a cheese."

On the evening before a solar eclipse the colonel of a German regiment
of infantry sent for all the sergeants and said to them:

"There will be an eclipse of the sun to-morrow. The regiment will meet
on the parade ground in undress. I will come and explain the eclipse
before drill. If the sky is cloudy the men will meet in the drill shed,
as usual."

Whereupon the ranking sergeant drew up the following order of the day:

"To-morrow morning, by order of the colonel, there will be an eclipse
of the sun. The regiment will assemble on the parade ground, where the
colonel will come and superintend the eclipse in person. If the sky is
cloudy the eclipse will take place in the drill shed."

A full-blown second lieutenant was endeavoring to display his great
knowledge of musketry. Sauntering up to the latest recruit, he said:

"See here, my man, this thing is a rifle, this is the barrel, this is
the butt, and this is where you put the cartridge in."

The recruit seemed to be taking it all in, so the officer, continuing,
said:

"You put the weapon to your shoulder; these little things on the barrel
are called sights; then to fire you pull this little thing, which is
called the trigger. Now, smarten yourself up, and remember what I have
told you; and, by the way, what trade did you follow before you
enlisted? A collier, I suppose!"

"No, sir," came the reply; "I only worked as a gunsmith for the
Government Small Arms Factory."